


Leisure

by BloodyMary



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen, Inquisitors can be idiots too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyMary/pseuds/BloodyMary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the Inquisition needs time when they relax. In fact, it could be said that the Inquisition needs time to relax most, though perhaps not near others of their Ordo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. De Potu Amaro

**De Potu Amaro**

Whoever had the brilliant idea of serving recaf while both Kharon and Caoxoch are around must have a death wish. I shall personally hang them by their intestines and then feed them their own liver. I’m not sure what I will do next, but it will be long and terrible, and likely involve juggling kidneys.  
  
You’d think that with me being an Inquisitor, the servants would listen to my orders. Think again. They hear what I say and do what they believe Mistress Gaia – my teacher – would have ordered. It has been years since she died and yet, here I am, in her shadow. I still catch the oldest ones calling me “young Nat”. I’m still her student to them.  
  
I can go, face Eldar witches and warlocks and when I come back somebody is bound to ask me if I’m eating enough.   
  
“Eggs,” Caoxoch says, her nostrils flaring in righteous indignation. She glares at Kharon coldly through the thin frames of her glasses. “You have added eggs with sugar to your recaf.”  
  
When Inquisitors meet, one has to prepare everything with the utmost care. Anything that would distract them has to be avoided. Any possible conflict has to be prevented. This is an encounter of strong personalities and volatile tempers; a disaster waiting to happen. Obviously, I have given very clear, very exact orders: do not serve recaf. Give them anything else: amasec, tea or, if everything else fails, the industrial oil leftovers that Brother Haakon calls mead.   
  
Did anyone listen? Did anyone care what is at stake? Of course not. That would require some thinking.   
  
“Egg yolk mixed with sugar, actually,” Kharon replies placidly. He even offers her a smile or something that passes for it, given that his face is mostly scar tissue. He reminds me of one of those old sour tomcats that will attack anything, including Land Raiders. “I will never understand how you can drink bitter cat-shit.”  
  
Trying to steer them away from their fight is futile. I have already tried on previous occasions. It never works. They always find a way to go right back to quarreling.  
  
It’s not like this is a social call. It never is. We have a whole damn cult of insane blood-thirsty maniacs on the loose, run by a man that apparently can convince stones to dance, but for those two this is less important than their bloody beverage.  
  
Caoxoch sniffs haughtily. “That is because you are a barbarian with the tastes of five-years-old.”  
  
I allow myself the luxury of a sigh. My colleagues ignore me completely, too intent on goading another.  
  
“My dear, you must be aware that bitterness is a warning that something is poisonous?” Kharon replies, unperturbed.  
  
By now, I know the arguments they will use by heart. I suppose they do as well, which puzzles me greatly. Do they really expect that repeating them over and over will somehow magically make the other relent?  
  
“Which is why your favourite amasec is sweet, I presume?” Caoxoch shoots back.   
  
I hate her. I really do. From her meticulously coifed hair to her impractically high heels. She seems so rational, so poised, but it does nothing to stop her from participating in this madness.  
  
“If I am to poison myself, I’d rather do it with something that has a pleasant taste,” Kharon says. “Life is too short and unpleasant to make it worse by punishing yourself with sewer waste.”  
  
I start counting to ten. After all, someone has to act like an adult and keep their cool.  
  
“Indulgence is the path to hedonism.” Caoxoch looks so pious as she speaks, she might as well be in a temple delivering a sermon. “One like you may not understand it, but only through denying ourselves pleasure and constantly testing ourselves, can we keep ourselves pure.”  
  
Why is there never an emergency when you need one? I don’t ask for much. Just a few Dark Eldar or maybe some cultists to distract them.  
  
“Ah, so you admit, you don’t like it either!” Kharon exclaims triumphantly.  
  
I groan loudly. It has about as much of an effect as a summer breeze.  
  
“I have said no such thing!” Caoxoch snaps. “And you’d do well and try recaf without all those ridiculous condiments you insist on adding, before you start criticizing.”  
  
It’s like watching one of those annoying rodents. All they do is run in circles and rant, rant, rant.  
  
“If I remember correctly, you were the one who started criticizing me,” Kharon replies.  
  
They’re so predictable. I knew they would just go back to where they started. They always do. Is there really no way to get them to stop?   
  
“And if I remember correctly, you have never tried what I drink, either,” Kharon continues. “You would do well to heed your own advice, love.”  
  
There has to be something that will make them shut up and never ever start this idiotic dispute again! Maybe I should just shoot myself? One clean shot, one little hole in the forehead and I would never hear this moronic quarrel.   
  
“Excuse me?” Caoxoch draws herself up, her bosom heaving even in the confines of her corset. “You want me to drink this… this… abomination?”  
  
Kharon grins and extends his hand invitingly. The liquid inside his cup has long ago gone tepid. Caoxoch eyes it, as if she expects something to ooze out of it. Kharon’s grin grows wider and wider, and finally I have enough.  
  
Enough of their inane feud and of listening to them every time we meet. Enough of being ignored and subjected to their fight, while the really important matters are left unattended and forgotten. I rip the cup from Kharon’s hand and throw it at the nearest wall. It smashes against it with a satisfying clatter.   
  
“Inter-“ Kharon starts, but corrects himself in time, “Inquisitor Nathaniel, what are you doing?”  
  
Then I rip Caoxoch’s cup from her fingers and pour the cool dark liquid over Kharon’s head. They both stare at me with shocked expressions and are finally, blessedly silent. A feeling of calm spreads all over my being and I smile.   
  
“Now that I have your attention,” I say, “let me solve your little disagreement once and for all. Recaf cannot compare to soda.”  
  
Then I drop Caoxoch’s empty cup on the floor and leave them to gape in mute confusion.


	2. In the Line of Duty

**In the Line of Duty**

 

Inquisitor Caoxoch sipped her recaf daintily and half-listening to her two fellows: Kharon and Nathaniel discuss their latest brushes with death. Naturally, there had been many, since their line of work was one of the most dangerous—if not the most dangerous—jobs in the Imperium.   
  
One could be shot at, stabbed, tortured, drowned, and burnt, to name but a few mundane dangers.  She wasn’t even counting psykers or the more exotic xeno breeds, but then there was no point in enumerating the ways an Inquisitor could be maimed or killed. Life would always find a way to surprise one.  
  
Kharon’s smiled, the grin twisting his scarred face into a gruesome mask. “Did I say it was over?” he asked. “No, my boy-“ he continued, ignoring the annoyance that flickered across Nathaniel’s face at being called “boy”, “just as the hybrids lay dead at our feet, Marimaia-my late psyker-started screaming and vomiting blood. Right on Theon’s favourite shoes, too. I’ll leave the racket that caused to your imagination, though that was nothing compared to what happened later.”  
  
He paused dramatically, and Caoxoch took a chocolate biscuit from a silver platter. She took a small bite and savoured the sweetness. “A Broodlord?” she guessed, before taking another sip of her recaf.  
  
Kharon glared at her venomously, something of a feat given that his eyebrows were missing and a part of his forehead was metal. “Indeed. A Broodlord. The idiot of a regenade adept somehow managed to strap the thing to a psy-amplifier, and cranked it up. Then he cranked it up some more, which in turn left me without a psyker and remains of her skull sticking to my forehead.”  
  
Nathaniel snorted. “That’s nothing. I stopped a Hrud migration.”  
  
Both Caoxoch and Kharon gave him long measuring looks. Then, the woman said, “You don’t look any older, dear.”  
  
“I didn’t get  _near_  them,” Nathaniel replied, and then, preempting the comment about cheating, he added, “but they were trying to get close to me all the time!”  
  
“You drowned them, didn’t you?” Caoxoch asked, and earned herself another venomous glare. Nathaniel was getting better at them, she had to admit. “It’s the safest method young ones like you usually can think about.”  
  
That earned her another glare, but then she supposed it was rather unsporting of her. Young men tended to be horribly sensitive about their achievements, and Nathaniel was likely still feeling uncertain in the company of more experienced colleagues. He had been an Interrogator not long ago, after all.   
  
“I can’t help but notice you did not regale us with any tales of your latest exploits,” Kharon said, smirking. It probably had not been a flattering expression when he had a whole face, but now it looked downright terrifying—to others, naturally. Caoxoch was not that easily scared.  
  
“I thought that since you cannot whip out your… instruments and measure them, you were resorting to proxies,” Caoxoch replied, adjusting her glasses.   
  
Both other Inquisitors sighed heavily. “I blame holos,” Nathaniel mumbled.   
  
“Oh, so it’s not a contest just for boys?” Caoxoch asked her voice oozing false girlish enthusiasm. “Now, what impressive things have I done recently?”  
  
She tapped her chin with a red-lacquered nail faux-thoughtfully. Kharon rolled his eyes, and Nathaniel produced one of his, quite masterful, weary sighs.   
  
“Do forgo the theatrics,” Kharon said. “You’re enjoying yourself as much as we do, so do not pretend to be above us.”  
  
“I was enjoying myself now too,” Caoxoch replied, but did get to the point. “Eldar Harlequins.”  
  
Kharon groaned. “The worst meddlers of a race that sticks their noses where they shouldn’t.”  
  
Nathaniel gave her a suspicious look, but remained silent. Caoxoch guessed that he was wondering if perhaps the insidious aliens had not subverted her and if she would start trying to convince them that whatever the xenos had planned would benefit the Imperium. While it was not exactly the most flattering sentiment, Caoxoch had to admit that it spoke of vigilance necessary in their line of work.  
  
“And naturally, when I ran into them, they were meddling,” Caoxoch said. “It wasn’t easy to discover—there was a cult, which reacted rather… forcefully to an Inquisitor, and there was a Governor, convinced I was an agent of the Tau Empire. The whole planet was trying to kill me.”  
  
“Sloppy,” Kharon said.  
  
Caoxoch shrugged. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But you have to understand that when I came the spiky-eared bastards had their fingers in every pie. They were pulling strings, and everyone of importance was dancing to their tune.”  
  
“So, there I was, out-gunned, out-numbered, and I suppose that lured the Eldar out of hiding. One of them had to come and gloat. Or possibly flaunt the fact that he weighed less than my thigh. And then…” she paused dramatically, “the Harlequins appeared—you’d think they look ridiculous, like a parody of a carnival, but they were terrifying.”  
  
“The Eldar leader started shrieking something, the traitors started shooting blindly, the Harlequins were dancing all over the place…”  
  
Caoxoch spread her hands wide with a modest smile, making another pause. “And then Adept Theta-Rho finished rigging our trap, and we snuck out. The explosion had been quite picturesque.”  
  
Kharon sighed. “That’s not bad. True. But it can’t compete against the time I nearly got squashed by a Titan-“  
  
“Which happened before I was born and doesn’t count,” Nathaniel replied quickly. Then, he added, “And this is not a contest.”  
  
The two older Inquisitors coughed and exchanged glances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was also written for a competition, but I managed to forget which.


	3. The Art of the Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Space Marine Chapter for everything.

It was something of a surreal sight. Caoxoch, in a bathrobe, was sitting opposite a scarred Space Marine, who was only wearing his pants. He was bent nearly double, a tiny paintbrush in his giant hand as he carefully applied nail polish over the horrible talon-like things the Inquisitor wore over her nails. 

“I shall paint aconitum blooms on the ones that contain the toxin, Inquisitor,” the Space Marine rumbled solemnly. Clearly, this was one of those situations, where no one had informed the eight feet tall posthuman warrior that what he was doing was a sign of decadence on many planets. To tell the truth, Nathaniel rather suspected that Space Marines were rarely informed of such things—if a person, who can smash your head in without trying decided they want to do something, few people felt brave (or suicidal) enough to try dissuading them.

“Thank you, Brother Clemantis,” Caoxoch replied. Then she turned her head towards the entrance and gave Nathaniel and Kharon a long measuring look through her lashes. “You're early.”

“How-?” Kharon choked out.

Nathaniel decided to let him ask—he was quite sure that if he'd contribute, it'd all end up in another long pointless winding conversation, during which someone would get painted with nail polish that contained toxin, and that would be a waste of Emperor's Inquisition.

Caoxoch and the Space Marine both turned towards Kharon, identical expectant looks on their faces. The Space Marine was missing the tip of his nose and one ear.

“Where did you find a Space Marine who can paint nails?” Kharon managed. “And where did he learn it?”

“From Sergeant Drummond,” Brother Clemantis answered in a sepulchral tone. 

“The Escher Marines practice nail painting as part of their doctrine to never go unarmed,” Caoxoch explained with a hint of smugness. 

“Are you implying, what I think you are implying?” Nathaniel asked, his brow knotted in a frown. His mind was already supplying him with the image of Caoxoch grilling some hapless Administratum drone into providing her the list of habits of various Chapters involving make-up. It was a very vivid one—the drone was thin and pale as fish's belly, with a bald head. His bloodshot-eyes were wide with awe and fear, as they gazed longingly at the forbidden promise of Caoxoch's bossom (which owed part of it's size, it seemed, to wonders of brasserie). Meanwhile, the Inquisitor gazed down at him, as she explained why the fate of the Segmentum rested on the fact that she needed to know if the Blood Angels really did use shampoo produced from the rare algae that only grew in the oceans of Talassar.

“I don't know what you think I'm implying,” Caoxoch answered. “Surely, it is entirely reasonable to seek out servants of the Emperor, who understand your methods of serving him. And I happened on the essay of Chaplain Lucretius on the most effective ways of filling one's nails purely by chance.”

“Brother Chaplain found the remarks Lady Caoxoch made on the application of toxins in nail polish quite intriguing,” Brother Clemantis contributed solemnly, as he carefully worked on one of Caoxoch's talons.

Nathaniel couldn't help but to notice that the Space Marine's nails were filled to a point and painted in a bright shade of red with tiny golden blobs over some of them. Blessing Magos Thantos silently, he activated the magnifying function of his occular implant to discover that the blobs were in fact tiny aquilas rendered in breath-taking detail.

“So, Nathaniel, Kharon,” Caoxoch said with a cool smile. “Would you like to join me?”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Read in a Rush competition on Black Library Bolthole: "Bitterness". I didn't get to any place, but it was still a lot of fun to write.


End file.
